


The tourney that started it all

by ChocoNut



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26597482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoNut/pseuds/ChocoNut
Summary: It is the tourney at King Robert's wedding and it all begins when Jaime defeats an unknown opponent.Edit : Chapter 2 is up.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 31
Kudos: 185





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this begins when Robert marries Cersei. For the sake of this story, I have assumed the age gap between Jaime and Brienne to be much less than canon. Jaime is about 18 or 20 when it starts, and Brienne a couple of years younger to him.

“Yield,” he hisses, pressing his blade to his disarmed opponent’s neck.

The crowd begins celebrating his victory, and out of the corner of his eye Jaime notices his sister clapping for him. His beautiful sister, the queen of his heart, who is now the queen of the seven kingdoms. The frustration of having to let go of her has, perhaps, fuelled his rage to an extent that he’s been more ruthless than ever to his opponent.

He steps away, and his adversary staggers to a seated position, then takes off his helmet—

“You’re a woman!” Jaime exclaims, although there's nothing about her appearance that can justify her sex.

“How does it matter, Kingslayer?” she barks, stumbling to her feet and picking up the weapon. “I will, forever, cherish the fact that I was the one to bring you to your knees.”

Of course, that’s true. Wiping a stream of sweat off his forehead, he gathers an eyeful of her. Not that there’s anything much to look at, except—

He rushes to follow when she begins to make her way out of there.

“Jaime,” he introduces himself, her blue eyes drawing him to steal more than a look at them as they walk back. “My name’s Jaime.”

The revulsion that his name brings to every face is on hers too, but no words supplement her look of distaste. 

“And you are—” he prompts, intrigue and more taking over as he mulls over their fight, over how she nearly had him there. “A knight has the right to know the name of the warrior who brought him to his knees,” he prods on, when she ambles alongside him in silence. “Particularly when she’s fought so well that she’s almost a match for him.”

“Brienne of Tarth,” she answers, at last, a fire lighting up those vivid blue eyes as some of the revulsion melts away from them.

+++++

“You’re distracted.”

Jaime pulls himself back from his contemplation and turns his attention to his sister. “I’m not, I was just thinking about the melee—”

“About the girl who _almost_ beat you?” Cersei guesses, her tone laced with bitterness.

Jaime leans back in his chair. “Such talent, she should be encouraged.” 

“You know who she is, don’t you?” Her sister cocks her brows, a condescending smile spreading across her lips. “The unmarriageable daughter of Selwyn Tarth.”

“What’s unmarriageable about her?” he absently asks, those brilliant eyes returning to occupy his mind. “She’s a highborn lady, quite skilled—”

“—in nothing but swinging a weapon around,” his sister viciously adds, her voice raised a notch. “In your excitement, I presume you failed to take a good look at her. She’s no more a lady than—”

“I did take a good look at her.” As tall as him, even slightly more so, and hair as golden as his, she could be a Lannister if it wasn’t for her looks. “While she’s not what you’d call a pretty girl—”

“She’s ugly.” Cersei, for some odd reason, gets up and begins pacing the room. “Did you not find her so?”

“She does have a homely face,” he thoughtfully states. Her freckles, he can recall, and her unladylike frame, but what sticks out in his head very _very_ vividly is that astonishing pair of eyes. “There are virtues other than a woman's countenance that can appeal to a man.”

“You think so?” With a mirthless laugh, she takes her place at the table again. “Thrice, she’s been turned down, spurned, even, by a man older than our father—” she leans to search his eyes “—have you heard of her betrothal with Ser Wagstaff? Broken bones, he ended up with—”

Jaime bursts out laughing, the sight hilariously unfolding in his head. “Of course,” he approves, his opinion mingled with peals of his mirth. “I’d do the same if I were being saddled onto someone like that.”

+++++

“You’re good,” he calls out in a sincere compliment, emerging from his hiding and stepping down the stairs as soon as she’s done for the day.

Surprise flashing in her eyes, Brienne returns her blade to her hips and straightens, the usual stiffness returning to her stance to cast away the unusual grace he’s been a witness to these last few minutes. “Kingslayer,” she stoically acknowledges his unwelcome intrusion. 

“Ser Jaime,” he tries to correct her perception again, rounding up on her, arms folded to his chest. The word, somehow, stings a lot more when it comes from her. “Or you could just call me Jaime. Sounds a lot friendlier.”

She says nothing, but readies to leave.

“Who did you train with?” he asks, wanting to make the most of every moment he has before she can escape.

“Ser Goodwin,” she answers, to the point and no more as she dashes up the stairs.

“I’ve been watching you for a while.” She begins to hurry and he promptly follows her. “Hidden up here—I didn’t want to throw you off guard or intimidate you.”

Again, silence is all he gets. And it begins to get on his nerves. 

“My lady,” he starts again as she loads her horse, his heartbeat picking up to an unnatural pace, “if you wish, we could train together for as long as you’re in King’s Landing.”

She halts, one hand on the saddle, the other fumbling with the weapon on her belt.

“Only if you want to,” he hastily adds, a dulling numbness spreading across his chest. “If you want nothing to do with the Kingsl—”

“It would be an honour to train with a warrior like you, Ser Jaime,” she softly accepts, and when she looks at him, those enchanting eyes accept him, too.

 _Ser Jaime._ Not the Kingslayer.

This isn’t a bad start at all.

+++++

“You could stay here, squire for Ser Barristan, then join the Kingsguard when you’re ready, wench,” Jaime grunts, lunging at her with all the force he can muster. “I can talk to him and the king and set things in place,” he goes on, hoping she agrees, for that would mean he can spend more than just these limited days with her.

“I am bound to serve no one but—” her declaration unfinished, she charges back at him, and with one deft stroke, disarms him.

“But—what?” Distracted, he stumbles, and using that split second to her advantage, she throws herself at him, bodily, and pins him to the wall. 

“Yield,” she hisses, the sparks in those eyes telling him she’s avenged her defeat at the tourney.

Jaime nods, and she draws away, panting. He’s struggling for breath too—more than that actually, for he can feel a certain _something_ tingling through his nerves, a sensation only Cersei has managed to awaken in him so far.

“Why not the Kingsguard?” he reminds her of their unfinished conversation as they prepare to vacate the place. “The way you’re going, you’ll be a knight one day—unless—” another thought creeps into his head “—you wish to marry and—” 

“I am not made for marriage,” she firmly asserts, and he notices a blush unrelated to her exercise creeping up her neck. “And I intend to serve none but Lord Renly.”

“Renly?” It comes out harsher than he intends.

She immediately takes offense. Her expressive eyes tell him so. “Why? What’s wrong—” 

“You fancy him,” he immediately assumes, his dislike for the young man increasing manifold.

“I don’t,” she dismisses in a tone that tells him this is the end of the subject.

And Jaime, to his surprise, finds himself hoping she’s speaking the truth. 

+++++

“Must you leave right away, my lady?”

She nods. Jaime cannot bear to look into those compelling eyes. He’s ready to do anything to keep her here for a little longer, whatever it takes, but her determination deters him from making another offer that might tempt her to linger. He wants to be a friend, not an obstacle in the path of her dreams and ambitions.

“Here—” he unsheathes a sword he’s kept on the table and hands it to her.

Brienne examines it, then looks up at him, questions and confusion in her eyes.

“It’s yours,” he says, struggling to keep his voice steady.

Eyes the size of plates, returns it to him. “I can’t take it—”

“You're my guest and one must not refuse a gift from her host,” he insists, hoping it might serve as a fitting and fond reminder to their brief but memorable acquaintance. “So do not deny me, my lady.”

This time she doesn’t resist. “Goodbye, Ser Jaime.” There is an edge to her tone, something he hasn’t heard before.

“Not goodbye,” he refuses to acknowledge, a small whisper deep down from a corner within him telling him this isn’t over yet. “We will meet again, Lady Brienne.”

A flicker of a rare smile, he can see, and a moistness in those beautiful eyes he won’t be seeing tomorrow morning. 

Then, she is gone.

And gone with her is the comforting blanket of warmth he’d been wrapped in all these days, her absence filling him with a strange sense of void.

+++++ 

_Several years later…_

  
  
  


“Ah, here he comes,” Cersei says, turning away from their father. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“That won’t be necessary,” his father snaps back at her, authoritative, as always. “Now that he is no longer in the Kingsguard, it is time he acts in the interest of our house.” 

Cersei answers with a smug, “He’s never going to agree.” 

Jaime takes the vacant chair next to his sister, looking questioningly from father to daughter. “Agree to what?” Is it merely his imagination or have her eyes gone icier with age?

“Lord Selwyn Tarth is hosting a feast on his daughter’s name day.”

 _Tarth._ Now that is a name he hasn’t heard for years, though his mind has wandered from time to time to the wench, most of them odd moments, unexpected.

“He wishes to seek an alliance for Lady Brienne and has invited all the noblemen, he thinks, will spare her a proper look,” she continues with added sourness. “Thrice bitten, and they’ve still not learnt a lesson—”

“There’s nothing unmarriageable about her,” he jumps up in defence of her. That she’s over Renly’s union with Margaery and is open for marriage, oddly, leaves him more cheerful than he's been for ages. That she hasn’t found a suitor yet, lifts him up even higher. “She just needs to find herself the right man,” he muses, inwardly wondering what type would appeal to her. “Someone who will make an effort to understand the unusual woman she is.”

“Lord Selwyn presumably thinks you might be one of these so called _right_ men, Jaime.” His father passes him a letter, keen old eyes studying him with interest and intent. “He has extended an invitation to you—” he pauses, narrows his gaze “—with a special request that you give the matter due consideration.”

“How can you even expect the most handsome man in Westeros to marry an ugly wench like her?” Cersei bursts out, flashes of bitterness from the night they’d first spoken of Brienne returning to her eyes. “She cannot even wear a dress. And have you noticed her gait—”

“She’s far from undesirable,” Jaime leaps in again, his mind lurking back to the wonderful time he’d shared with her. “Quite an incredible woman, actually.”

“Does this mean I can write back to Lord Selwyn and tell him you’re coming?” asks his father, the corners of his lips taking on a faint hint of a smile.

“He never actually agreed to—” Cersei starts to speak on his behalf, livid with shock and disbelief.

“I will accept that invitation.” Ignoring his sister, Jaime looked his father in the eye. With Cersei seeking solace in the arms of other men and his romantic love for her waning over time, there’s nothing left for him here at King’s Landing. “Casterly Rock, a wife, children—” He takes a deep breath, his mind made up, his resolve set. A future, he can see, one he can carve for himself. “I’ve changed my stand, father. None of that looks like a bad prospect anymore.”

It is time to pay his wench a visit, one he wishes, would turn out to be more than just that. And, of course, he intends to do more than just spare her a _proper look_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end :)

_My dear lady,_

_I will keep it short, for a man of lengthy declarations and complex compositions, I am not. I’m just writing to tell you that I—_

Brienne pauses as well. Her heart skips a little when she notices the blot of ink at the end of that sentence he’s decided to leave hanging in the air.

 _It’s a small world, Brienne,_ he writes on, _and we’re going to meet again, at last. Didn’t I tell you when we parted that it isn’t goodbye yet?_

_Awaiting our next meeting._

_Yours,_

_Jaime (at least now, after all these years, please stop calling me ‘ser’)_

Brienne looks up from his writing, smiling to herself. She can picture his handsome face, the teasing grin—

“My dear.”

She quickly folds the letter and stuffs it into the envelope. “Father.” 

“You look radiant and mighty cheerful,” her father observes, eyes crinkling fondly. “And I have more good news for you—Lord Tywin wrote to tell me he’s coming, but—” he shifts his attention from her face to the correspondence in her hand “—he has directly made it known to you, I see.”

She nods, but refuses to let this get to her head. While he will be joining in the feast, his real intent is, so far, not entirely clear. He has far from mentioned anything in particular in his brief message. 

But she, too, has been fluid about it. While she did announce her readiness for marriage in the hope that _he_ might be the one to take her home, there’s still this nagging voice in her head that keeps reminding her of the stark differences between them. Her father’s last attempt at something like this, she vividly recalls, of how all the boys had only attended out of an obligation. What if the nightmare repeats this time? What if Jaime changes his mind as soon as he sees her again? He’s not like the rest of them, but can he overlook the fact that she is probably the ugliest woman in Westeros?

More importantly, can he fully get over his first love should he choose to— 

“Are you sure he’s the right man for you?” asks her father, doubt and concern creeping into his tone. “The Kingslayer has a past darker than—”

“Ser Jaime, not the Kingslayer. And it is all in the past,” she defends him, all her feelings for the gallant knight gushing out in those words. “He’s treated me with far more respect and regard than anyone ever has.”

“If you had told me all this before I’d extended an invitation to the other lords, we could've saved all this effort,” he gently admonishes her. “If Jaime Lannister is who you want—” 

“I don’t know yet if he wants me,” she voices her insecurity. Friends and fellow warriors, they were, but beyond that, she cannot say. 

“Will he keep you happy?”

A lump invades her throat. She knows he will.

+++++

_Dear Wench,_

_This is just to tell you that I am to embark upon this journey tomorrow. I can’t sleep in anticipation. I can’t wait to see you again. Father claims I’ve never been this restless before. Cersei blames it on age. She says I’m an old man now (which makes her as old as I am, but I exercise caution not to point it out to her)_

Brienne looks up, amused. A fleeting vision of a livid Cersei extracts a giggle out of her, but then it leaves her wondering what Jaime might be like now. Even more handsome than he’d been when younger? She’s prepared to bet her sword he’s grown better with age.

Her hand, of its own accord, drifts to the weapon on her waist.

_His sword._

She takes a moment to regard it with affection, a symbol of his affection, perhaps?

Returning to the letter, she continues to re-read the rest.

_Tyrion says it’s just nerves and it happens to every man who wants to—_

Again the same pointed flood of ink. Unfinished. Open for her to guess.

_Perhaps, he’s right. Perhaps, this will ease only after—_

She shakes her head in frustration. Why does he keep doing this?

_Yours,_

_Jaime._

_Yours._ She dwells over that word again and again and again.

Then spends all day reading and re-reading, every pass through it, leaving her sinking deeper into it.

At last, when it is way beyond bedtime, she puts the letter away and retires for the day. A few short sentences, they are, but precious strings of words she’s memorized, something, she knows, will haunt her for nights to come. As she lies staring at the candle flame, her doubt about his heart begins to sink into a deeper corner of her, hope for a bright future beginning to emerge in its place.

 _I can’t sleep too,_ she whispers to herself, her thundering heart not letting her savour a moment’s rest.

She, too, cannot wait to see him again. Why, after all these years of keeping away, is the biggest question in her mind, but she wants these letters to keep coming.

She wants time to fly so he can be here in an instant.

+++++

_Dear Brienne,_

_I’m on my way, and since I’m trapped in a dingy inn for the night, thought I’d put down a few words to let you know about it. It’s a long way to Tarth and this is the only way I propose to spend my time._

_Tarth—the Sapphire Isles—I’ve never been there before. Are the waters a lovely blue? Just like your eyes?_

_I can bet my sword, they are. And I can’t wait to drown in their beauty—the island and the sea around it, of course—_

_What else, did you think, I’m talking about?_

Brienne looks into her mirror, her eyes meeting the blue pair in the reflection. She can’t help but pity the poor man—he’s never had to woo anyone before, assuming that’s what he’s been trying to do. And all this is foreign to her, as well. She’s never been courted before, only mocked at and ridiculed.

This—him—these letters—they’re a breath of fresh air. Unbelievable, yet true. And she goes back to immerse herself in the comforting blanket of his words again. 

_On an unrelated note, have you considered wearing blue, wench?_

_Yours,_

_Jaime._

A flood of warmth rushing up her chest, Brienne runs her fingers along the stones embroidered on the gown she's cradling in her arms.

Blue, it is.

Sapphires.

+++++

The proceedings have begun, but there’s no sign of him.

Men, young and not that young and older, have gathered—how many to seek her hand and how many merely out of polite obligation, she cannot say. And she doesn’t care. Her eyes wander the hall, searching, seeking— 

“Lady Brienne.”

She wheels around to find a brown haired young man who is about a head shorter than her, smiling at her. “Ser Hyle Hunt, it’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” He holds out a hand. “Would you do me the honour of having this first dance with me?”

“I—” she stutters uncomfortably. She cannot bring herself to accept, to offer him something that belongs to someone else. But this knight is a guest she doesn’t want to offend, either. “I don’t— I—My apologies, I can’t, because—”

“—she’s already promised _me_ the first dance of this evening,” says a crisp voice behind her—something she hasn’t heard for years, something that sets off a stream of shivers all through her. “And every dance that follows.”

“But you’ve just arrived.” Hyle looks between the two of them, unsuspecting, yet curious. “When did she—”

“Oh, long back,” Jaime vaguely dismisses him, then takes her hand without waiting for the other man’s response. “The music’s begun to play, my lady—”

“Yes,” she whispers, before he can even finish, then lets him lead her to the centre. 

“You can thank me later,” he says with a mischievous smile as they fall into line with the other couples.

“For denying him a chance to dance with me?”

“For saving you from him.” He takes his position opposite her along with the rest of the men. “And from every other man in this hall,” he points out under his breath. 

“I didn’t need your help,” she teases in the same playful tone as his. They hold hands and wait for the tune to play. “I could’ve tackled him easily—”

“You could have—” a few steps, then they switch sides “—if he dared threaten you with a sword, my lady. But this is a different game, altogether, something you can choose to play only with—” Here comes his annoying pause again. His eyes are twinkling, and only now, Brienne notices him properly. Age has been kind to him. If he was handsome when younger, now he’s—

“Can’t keep your eyes off me, wench?” 

The words are starting to get embarrassingly mixed up in her head. “No—I was just—” 

Chuckling, he draws her closer. “Hyle Hunt and the others,” he breathes into her ear, warm and tingly, “they’re all here for—”

“I know what they’re here for—” she tries not to be pinned down by her edgy nerves and the intoxicating effect he has on her. “The question is, what are _you_ here for, Ser Jaime?”

“Why, to dance with you, of course,” he evasively answers.

“Why did you lie to that knight?” she continues to prod, hoping that might nudge him to elaborate. “Why did you tell him I’m promised to you?”

“Aren’t you?” he says softly before the rhythm compels them to change partners.

+++++

She’s contented, happy, excited, her heart fluttering away merrily with the passing minutes. She’s been having a wonderful evening, more than she could’ve asked for. Yet, that is what it has been so far—the pleasure of his company and one delightful dance after another. While she’s quite certain about the intention of his visit, that he hasn’t been entirely plain about it, is still crawling all over her head, leaving her restless enough to give dinner a slip and resort to some solitary time and the comfort of the moonlit night to calm her down.

“Here you are, wench.” 

Jaime approaches her, then lets his eyes linger on her, like he’s seeing her for the first time this evening. “I was right,” he murmurs, an admiring smile adorning his charming face. “Blue is a good colour on you.” He pauses, then cracks his knuckles before going on, “I’ve always wanted to see what you look like in blue and—” he trails away, his wandering gaze finishing his compliment. 

If she’s been fighting all along to keep her composure, now she’s waging a war to keep herself from blushing profusely. “I hope you enjoyed the feast,” she says, like a hospitable hostess should, her emotions safely tucked inside the chained safety of her heart.

Jaime edges closer, the same look in his eyes he’d had when they’d parted company, tearing into her. “How can I partake of a feast when you choose to distance yourself from me?” 

She mulls over his words, what to say to them, eluding her.

“Your letters—” she starts.

“I hope they weren’t an annoyance—”

“Far from it,” she gushes, every word to have touched those parchments still fresh in her mind.

He nods, then rubs his palm on his trousers, suddenly looking as nervous as her. “I was hoping to—” he falters, just like those unfinished lines he’d written to her “—I apologize if they sounded too brazen—” 

“Your sister—” she says, bringing up the one thing that’s been refusing to let go of her. “After all these years—” she doesn’t know how to put it “—why now?”

“She’s no more than just my sister,” he quietly admits, his eyes taking on a distant look. “I kept away from you because I didn’t want to get in your way—between you and—” His tone grows even softer. “Why did you shut yourself to marriage all these years? And—” he takes her hand, and she can feel her chest tighten “—why all this now? Why the need to invite me, the Kingslayer, of all the men your father can choose for you—”

“Jaime,” she gently corrects him, but she cannot bring herself to tell him why in plain words.

“So Renly couldn’t stay put, after all,” he huffs, relief washing over his features. But immediately, he’s back to his mischievous self. “What about Hyle Hunt and all your other suitors who are here tonight? They’ll be disappointed if you spend all your time with me—” 

“I could go back there if you insist,” she gives him back in the same light vein. “Ser Hyle looked quite keen on more than a dance—” 

“Oh, he won’t bother you again.” Jaime brings her hand to his lips. “Nor will anyone else there,” he says, leaving delicate breezy kisses on her fingers. “Because—”

This time she cannot let him end it on an inky blot that wanders into the wilderness. “Because—?” 

“The first dance and every other one after that,” he says, his voice slightly shaky and unsteady.

“Promised to you,” Brienne shyly consents.

And with the first brush of his lips against hers begins the first of their many dances to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it!


End file.
